His hand flicked out automatically, as fear and dismay welled up in his mind. Everything he had ever done he had flubbed, somehow--he searched frantically through his mind for one small, pure act of absolute bravery, unadorned by words, unaltered by empty rationalizations and built-up courage, and his mind yielded nothing but hoarse, heavy laughter. Somewhere there was a key. It had started somewhere, if only he could remember. Somewhere beneath the years of futile failure, there was a core-- "_Sixty seconds, Scotty--Good luck, boy!_" He froze, his hands clutching the safety belt in a grip of iron as the words pounded in his ear: "--forty--thirty five--thirty--twenty five--" And then, like a great door opening up in his mind, he remembered-- * * * * * A day so long ago, so deeply buried that it had not come to mind in years. A day when he had been walking down a village street, on the way to the store for his mother, a small boy, hardly ten-- A group of boys, appearing suddenly from the old garage he was passing. A thin-faced lad, tall and sharp-boned, with cold eyes and a sneer on his thin lips. Other boys, too, mostly bigger than he. His eyes widened, and he started to back away when Thin-face grabbed his collar, pulled him up sharp. "Where you think you goin', bud?" "Just down the street--" "Who said you could walk on this street?" "It's not your street. I can walk where I want--" A gleam of cruelty in Thin-face's eyes. "Sissy thinks he's smart." A sharp-knuckled hand struck him across the nose. "You want to fight?" Scotty shook his head, eyes wide. "No, I just want to--" His eye caught one of the others, sidling around behind him-- "Stand still!" He had been paralyzed. The rabbit-punch struck him a hammer-blow, and tears streamed down his face. Thin-face hit him again, and blood spurted from his nose. "Put up your hands and fight--" "I can't--" "You'd better fight, sissy--I'll kill ya!" "I don't want to fight--" The fear, the mortification, the blind, paralyzing fear. Another blow struck him, and he tumbled backwards over the boy who had crouched behind him, and struck his head on the sidewalk. They had roared with laughter, and one of them kicked him. And then he was on his feet, darting between them, running for his life, running with blind fear snarling at his heels, down an alley, into a backyard, across into another alley--He had seen the open cellarway, then, and crawled down in, heart pounding in his throat, waiting as the boys came through the yard, looking, laughing at the sport, walking on. He waited for hours before he dared come out, and every minute of those hours he trembled, desperately sick and ashamed, wondering what Dad would ever think of him if he should find out-- * * * * *